I took the mop out of my daughter’s hands, set it gently against the wall, smiled the calmest smile I’ve ever smiled in my life, pulled out my phone, and took three very clear photos: the mop, my mother’s smug face, Harper mid-sneer.
Mom rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Nathan.”
I said nothing. Just slipped the phone back in my pocket.
That night we opened presents, sang the songs, did the hugs. At 11:47 p.m., while everyone was arguing over leftovers, Sophie, Ava, and I quietly loaded the car and left. No scene. No slammed doors. Just gone.
Christmas morning, 8:03 a.m., while Mom was probably bragging to the neighbors about how she “taught the child responsibility,” I did five things, in this order: